


For This Memorial’s Sake

by Pforte



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Misunderstandings, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 19:36:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1995291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pforte/pseuds/Pforte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Merlin doesn’t tell Arthur who he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For This Memorial’s Sake

**Author's Note:**

> Edited repost from LJ. The title is from Dylan Thomas's poem _After the Funeral_. I do not own anything related to BBC Merlin and/or Dylan Thomas.

His steps on the stony staircase hardly make a sound. It’s a warm spring night and only a few nights before the full moon, so he has no difficulties spotting his king, immersed in moonlight. Arthur stands on the battlement and watches the peaceful, sleeping town below the castle. 

“I thought I’d find you here,” Merlin says, as he steps up beside him. Arthur’s hands are firmly planted on the cool, rough stone and his gaze sweeps over what is his now. Two years, only two years since Uther has died. Merlin isn’t sure that either of them was ready for the burden of kingship. It may be destiny but it’s a heavy one. He mimics Arthur’s position, trying to see what he sees. 

Lightly, Arthur’s hand covers his. “Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to be down there and lead a normal life,” he says. 

Merlin smiles. “Having someone else make decisions for you? You’d hate it.”

Arthur snorts. “Perhaps.”

He’s in a strange, reminiscent mood, Merlin can sense that. After all this time by his side, he is attuned to Arthur’s moods. They once had a similar conversation in Ealdor and Merlin had brushed him off then as he did just now. But when he tries to imagine it, a more carefree Arthur untroubled by royal responsibilities and duties, it’s terribly, shockingly easy. If only it were possible...

Merlin pushes the troubling thought aside and coaxes Arthur down into his chamber; there is a dreadfully long day awaiting them and his king will need all his wits. 

But Merlin never forgets. 

 

***

 

Sometimes Merlin doesn’t tell Arthur who he is. That is, he doesn’t tell him about his previous lives and not about dragons, Camelot, Excalibur and destiny. Merlin doesn’t tell him about himself, either. He can’t stay away entirely. The one time he tried, it hurt – not as deeply as watching Arthur die but the ache, boring in his chest, had not gone away as long as Arthur was alive. _Sixty-two years_. Worse, Arthur had felt it, too. After all this time by his side, Merlin _knows_. He’s been Arthur’s shadow and protector for hundreds of years and the bond between them is too strong to be denied. So the next time, he stays at the fringes and only brushes Arthur’s life, allowing him to live a whole life in ignorance but keeping the pain at bay. Mostly. Watching him have all the things that are usually out of his reach – a chosen trade, a place to settle down, a wife married for love – is a pain he knows to be one-sided and so it is worth it. Merlin knows that he cannot shelter Arthur from destiny forever. But it isn’t fair, dammit, and neither of them signed up for lifetime after lifetime of sacrifice, so sometimes, sometimes he tries. 

 

***

 

Sometimes Merlin doesn’t tell Arthur who he is. That is, he lets him waste an entire lifespan without revealing himself to Arthur, never telling him anything about home, his rightful place and a friendship so intense that it has lasted for centuries. And when Merlin comes to him and wakes his memories, Arthur never lets on that he remembers not only his first life and the ones he lives as Arthur but all the other lives that came after and in-between, no matter if Merlin was part of them or not. Arthur does not tell him that he is happy in these lives, the lives without Merlin, but never, _never_ complete, always wanting, because something is missing. And so he spends the time he’s been given searching for this something, _anything_ to fill the void. The first time he thinks that Merlin simply didn’t find him, that he was as lost as he was. But the second time he remembers the young bard and, years later, the bearded clerk and he _knows_ and he hurts. Keeping secrets from each other is something they swore never to do again but there is no moral code for reincarnation, for new gods and strange customs. The world changes and they change along with it. At least Arthur does. Merlin is still the same, all secretive smiles and wistful glances. Arthur does not know why Merlin keeps silent and he does not dare ask. It isn’t a question of loyalty but maybe... 

_Till death do us part_. Arthur says the vows, only remembering a lifetime later that another one had an older and deeper claim on him, that this was a vow written in blood and tears and magic. Some memories, though centuries old, stay clear and sharp in his mind. Merlin’s face, eyes dull with agony, fading in the distance as the mists of Avalon disbanded for him on his last journey (the first of many), is etched into his brain. 

That was then. 

 

***

 

This is now.

Andrew Prince is what one could call an aimless student. Some would even say he is a lazy sod but he doesn’t socialise with killjoys so he would not know. At twenty-five Andrew has changed his subject five times and his university twice. He is restless but most of his friends are, too, so Andrew doesn’t worry. Money is not an issue in his world of sports, games and parties; he inherited a filthy amount of it from a distant uncle who had died childless. He likes sex with blokes and girls alike, provided that they’re beautiful and fancy-free, and he likes booze, Punk and drugs and preferably all these things combined. 

The party he is being at right now is definitely meeting all his requirements. He’s had five or six shots of Ukrainian vodka (snagged from the liquor cabinet) and a few beers, the music is loud and edgy and currently a pretty redhead is nibbling on his neck and moving her hand slowly down between his legs. Her name is Anna or Erin and he’s seen her once in his sociology class – one of the two times he attended. The air is heavy with the smoke of dozens of cigarettes. It’s noisy and wild and it drowns out the strange yearning he suspects everyone else here feels. 

When he opens his eyes, he sees his mate Marc stumbling and pushing through the dancing and chatting crowd, a pint in one hand, a ripped-open package of crisps in the other and the stains beer and crisps on his shirt. “Oi, Prince,” he calls out. His curly brown hair is a mess and his eyes are bloodshot but he’s still handsome in a roguish kind of way. 

“Can’t you see I’m busy?” he drawls and the words jumble together. Fuck, he hadn’t noticed that he’s drunk already. It’s too early to leave with or without company. 

“Yeah, but Phil has got a madsh—magician!” Marc exclaims, face bright with anticipation. All of his friends know about his obsession with all things magic. He celebrated his eighteenth birthday in Vegas and wouldn’t shut up about it for weeks. Since the day he saw his first magician at a friend’s birthday party at the age of five, Andrew has been fascinated by card tricks, illusions and the way magic never stops surprising him. He tried the trade himself but found that he doesn’t have the patience, and since he never does things rough-and-ready, he left it at that. 

So it only surprises Anna, no, Erin when he extracts himself from her with a mumbled apology and staggers over the coffee table – laden with empty bottles, ashtrays and half-eaten snacks – towards Marc, whose grin is wide and a little smug. 

“Let’s see him then,” he says and they make their way through the partying crowd, stepping over at least three couples making out on the floor. 

When they arrive, Phil, another friend of his, is cheering and whooping at something a boy is doing in the kitchen. Phil must be far gone because he’s usually so phlegmatic that his nickname is Zombie Man. It’s too bright in the kitchen and Andrew’s head fucking _pounds_. He watches the dark-haired boy, who is at least four years their junior, as he makes a coin disappear with nimble but not quick enough fingers, and he huffs in disappointment. He has seen better. 

“Amateur,” someone says beside him. Andrew turns his head – too swiftly – and takes a look at the bloke who’s spoken. He is lanky and tall and about his age, with a shock of unruly pitch-black hair, ridiculous ears and bright blue eyes. He looks vaguely familiar but Andrew can’t place him.

“Damn right,” he agrees. 

“I’m Marvin,” the newcomer says and smiles in a way that makes something in Andrew’s loins coil. Before he knows it, he and Marvin are talking and drinking, dancing and flirting and then the next thing Andrew knows is that he has the mother of all motherfucking headaches and that he’s not alone in his bed. 

He groans and turns away from the beam of sunlight that is shining directly on his face. He must have been too drunk to draw the curtains close. He blinks a few times and the room regains some shape. Gingerly, he throws a glance at the lean, deeply-asleep body next to him. Marvin’s limbs are impossibly entangled in the sheets and duvet, his bony hips exposed to the too enthusiastic spring sun. He sleeps on unperturbed. Lying on his side, his mouth is half-open and he drools a little on Andrew’s satin linen. The image evokes dreamlike memories, too indistinct to be grasped, and it is too early to think anyway. Yet, Andrew’s eyes are drawn to the delicate skin of last night’s conquest. Marvin’s got a milky and nearly see-through complexion and his limbs are sparely dusted with dark hair. He reaches out and lets his fingers glide over the skin of Marvin’s arm. It’s soft and smooth to his touch but he feels firm muscles, too. A flash of memories and he draws back. 

_Marvin’s eyes glowing as he licked and kissed his way down to his cock...strong hands gripping his hips in ecstasy...pale-white skin smudged with red where Andrew had sucked hard...deep, throaty groans being pushed out of him...so good, fuck yeah...their sweat-slick bodies pressing and moving together, closer, closer..._

Andrew shakes his head and groans again when the abrupt movement threatens to split it in two. What he needs right now is a hot shower and a glass of cold water with an Aspirin sizzling inside. As soon as he goes vertical, his head explodes. _Two_ Aspirin then. Avoiding any more direct sunlight, he makes his way to the bathroom, not as silent as he could be, but fuck, this is his flat and he hurts too much to care about Sleeping Beauty. 

The spray of steaming water finally wakes him up properly and with a sigh he rests his forehead against the cool tiles. This is better. Apart from his thumping head, his muscles are loose and he feels boneless, so the sex must have been good. No, it’s still too early to reconstruct the night. He takes his time, standing under the shower until his fingers are wrinkly. It’s only when the water runs cold that he gets out. The face staring back out of the steamed-up bathroom mirror looks more like him than he expected, though his eyes are red and he’s got a greenish complexion. Andrew is too honest with himself to bother with groaned and heartfelt oaths about abstinence, he knows that he will be getting pissed again soon and that he will enjoy it and deal with the hangover later. The circle of life, blah blah. He needs that Aspirin right fucking _now_. 

Fifteen minutes later, he reappears from the bathroom with a towel slung around his hips and his hair clammy but nearly dry. He’s almost forgotten about his one-night stand when he comes to a halt outside his bedroom. There, he clearly just heard his name. Andrew strains his ears, not caring that eavesdropping is considered impolite in most cultures. Marvin is talking animatedly to someone, most likely on the phone. (That or he is a very pretty lunatic.)

“No, I didn’t mean for this to happen. You _know_ that,” Marvin says, sounding sincerely contrite. Well, it was only a one-night stand and from what Andrew gathers a pretty good one, so there is no need to be upset, is there?

“I met him at this party...I don’t know, I was drunk. We both got drunk and he’s...dammit, Morgana, he looks the _same_. No, he doesn’t know. Oh, please, what good would it do? There is no immediate global or national crisis as far as I can see, so why would I want to ruin his life? He looks happy.” Marvin’s voice breaks and Andrew feels choked up all of a sudden. What is this? Why is this stranger talking about him to someone called Morgana as if they both know more about him than he does? Confusion grows into hot anger, unfurling rapidly in his chest. It’s like a bad 80s espionage film and Andrew won’t have any of it. He’s about to tear open the door, when Marvin speaks again.

“Oh, come on! I can’t just walk up to him and say ‘ _Sorry about that, Arthur. The first twenty-five years of your life were a lie. I didn’t mean to tell you that you’re the once and future king but I kind of slept with you by accident, so there_ ’. Give me a break, Morgana.” 

The moment he hears the name – _Arthur_ – he feels like something sharp and vicious has been rammed into his stomach and it is being _twisted_. Nauseous and dizzy from the onslaught, he chokes and slumps to the floor. Cold sweat clings to his skin, his heart is beating painfully fast and violent against his ribcage and he squeezes his eyes shut against the pain, the raw, piercing pain that seems to spread all through his body. A flood of memories hits him like a fist in the back of his head and he goes blind from the impact. Too much, too fast, too...

Someone is shaking him. “Oh Gods, wake up. Please, you have to wake up!” The voice is urgent and panicky and someone tucks on his arm, again and again. He forces his eyes open, expecting another wave of pain but all he sees is Merlin, blue eyes wide with worry and fear, his face pale and drawn.

“Merlin,” he groans and reaches to rub his head where only moments before it hurt the most. “Fucking hell...that hurt.” He tries to sit up and waits for Merlin to give him a hand because, yes, that’s what he does.

Merlin doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do anything; he is frozen in place and stares at him. “You know,” he eventually whispers. 

Arthur stares at him incomprehensibly until he remembers that, too. “Oh, right. You didn’t _mean_ to tell me,” he says flatly. 

“Arthur,” Merlin says and reaches for him. Arthur pulls away, overcome with sudden white-hot fury. 

“I don’t want to hear about it. Whatever your excuses are, I don’t want to hear them. Leave.” He grits the words out, forces them through his teeth, because, right now, he would rather hit them home with his fists. Merlin half-opens his mouth to say something else and Arthur roars, “LEAVE. IN CASE _YOU’VE FORGOTTEN_ , I’M YOUR KING AND THAT’S AN ORDER!”

Merlin gets up and gathers his clothes. They are scattered all over the room. Only now Arthur notices that he is still in his underwear and that he himself has only a towel for cover. Of course he shouldn't throw Merlin out like that but he cannot bear to be in the same room with him and he is too furious to _think_ , so he flees to the kitchen and shuts the door behind him. Five minutes later he hears the front door and finally, finally he can fucking breathe again. 

 

***

 

Arthur quits seeing Andrew’s friends. He has little in common with them now because he is neither twenty-five nor thousandfourhundredandfortytwo (too staggering a number to write down and look at). Somehow he’s stuck in a body that looks and feels like his but is taller and modified to fit this new age in many subtle ways. Arthur thinks and feels like a young man but at the same time, he has the memories of several lifetimes. It’s exhilarating, confusing and scary all at once. It’s how destiny orchestrates mind fucks. 

It takes days to put the mess in his head in order and stash certain memories away. As he has always done, Arthur focuses on the here and now. He has a purpose again, though he would like to ask Andrew why he thought that not having a life with _meaning_ was necessarily a bad thing. Arthur knows all about duty and responsibility. He may not like destiny very much right now but he knows who he is and what he has to do. Sort of. If he was reborn then there is a threat he has to face and defeat. There always is. Well, most of the times. The only thing that is different this time is that he is not speaking to Merlin. Oh, Merlin has tried. But Arthur is sure that he cannot yet bear the excuses and lies he will undoubtedly come up with for his, Arthur’s, good. Unfortunately, they have crossed a line, have broken an unspoken accord this time, and there is no going back to ignorance and pretences. 

They last four months. Four months in which Arthur misses Merlin like hell. He’s never been without him before, not _knowingly_ anyway. Only couples together for a lifetime would be able to understand how deeply he is _missing_ Merlin. It is more than affection, more than love – and Arthur knows the difference, for he has loved many times – it is a feeling of belonging and companionship built on sharing _everything_ for decades, centuries. Without Merlin, Arthur isn’t Arthur, not wholly. It’s strange to be in this new time, this strange Britain, and not have someone at his side who has seen it all, who _knows_ , too, and who remembers. 

Contrary to Merlin, he isn’t in contact with Morgana. She is everlasting but in a different way than Merlin or even Arthur himself. She lives in the past, the now and in the future and isn’t really present in any of them. She is Morgana le Fay who belongs to another world (and she doesn’t use a _phone_ ). So four months feel like four years and Arthur cannot help but wonder if Merlin feels the same when he is not around, because after all and despite everything, Arthur is human and Merlin is...more.

But Arthur has faced many foes, it seems preposterous that he cannot face his lover. Eventually he feels ready enough to deal with whatever story Merlin cooked up. He sends notice to meet him on a hill not far from where Camelot once was. 

 

***

 

It’s September and the trees are beginning to colour. He walks slowly and, when the wind stirs, Arthur feels a pang of nostalgia. Even after all these centuries, the air smells like home. A few minutes later, Merlin strolls up to where he is sitting and waiting on the green and he looks worn on the edges, his cheekbones standing out more, as if he worries despite his knowledge of _what will be_.

“I’m glad you stopped sulking and dodging me,” Merlin says in way of greeting. “It was getting a bit tiresome.”

Arthur looks up at him. There he is, dressed like a child of this time, and Arthur knows what he is trying to say and, no, it wasn’t a walk in the park for him, either. After a moment’s hesitation, Merlin sits down next to him, a few feet away and they both look down at the town that is not Camelot.

“Why?” Arthur asks after a while.

Merlin sighs. “Because you said so once. One night in spring, I found you on the battlement and you told me that you wondered. What being normal would be like.”

Arthur isn’t prepared for the sudden, violent surge of anger. Without thinking, he shoves Merlin, hard. “This is all you got? Are you _serious_? You let me live in ignorance for – I counted – _five lifetimes_ and all you’ve got to say is this?” His voice his rising. “You should have asked me instead of making that decision for me, you meddling little bastard!”

“Because you’re in the habit of dodging your responsibilities. I bet you would have embraced the opportunity,” Merlin snarks, straightening up. He wears blue jeans and a white T-shirt, that is now stained from the grass. Arthur isn’t sure why he notices because, rightfully, he should be blind with anger. 

“I’m sure you’d have found a way to convince me. You always do,” Arthur snaps. 

Merlin jumps to his feet in front of Arthur. “Oh, and when would have been the right time to say, ‘Oh, Arthur, next time you’re reborn, you know, after you died in my arms again, would you like to have a nice and cosy life in ignorance?’” 

Stunned, Arthur looks up. Merlin’s cheeks are flushed with anger but his eyes...his eyes aren’t blazing with fury, they are dark and filled with a sadness so profound that Arthur can’t breathe for a moment. For a split second, he can see the years and losses weighing down on Merlin’s shoulders and he looks as old as he is. It’s gone in the blink of an eye and there Merlin stands, all awkward angles and righteous anger. 

“Is that it? You don’t want to watch me die again?” Arthur asks quietly, overwhelmed by his epiphany. 

Merlin looks away and there is a moment of silence. He hears a car honking in the distance. A reminder that they are still here, in the now. 

“It’s hard, all right? It’s hard to see you have the normal life you always wanted with someone else,” Merlin tells him eventually, still not looking at him. “But it’s even harder to watch you grow up and then take that life away from you. It’s _bloody hard_ to do that to the man I love not once but over and over again. And I’m never sure, Arthur. I can never be sure if this is the last time. So when you die...” For a moment all Merlin does is breathe. “When you _die_ , I live on not knowing if I sent you off to Avalon and away from me forever. You always die the same...there is a battle and then there is magic and, inevitably, you _fall_. I don’t know how many times I’ve seen you fall. And then...you lie there battered and bloody and there is no one but me to open the gates.” 

As if spellbound, Arthur can’t move. He had never thought of this, the possibility of fading forever, not since his first death when he had to worry about his legacy. Arthur tries to imagine what it would be like to look into unseeing blue eyes, to stand at Merlin’s grave or watch _his_ boat disappear in the whispering mists on a lake not far from here. He has buried two wives and he loved them dearly but there has never been any doubt to his mind with whom he would be spending the afterlife. Losing Merlin and not being able to follow him to Avalon, not ever, is something he cannot conceive of without the most horrible, gut wrenching pain. Merlin’s voice goes quieter and quieter as he goes on and Arthur has to strain his ears to hear him at all. The mild summer breeze is carrying the words towards the town below. 

“So sometimes,” Merlin ends, “I rather see the world go to hell and watch you grow old from afar. I never have that luxury when we’re together.” He looks fragile and forlorn now that he shared his grief and for the first time ever Arthur can see the immortal behind the boyish face; a stranger in his own land, the most powerful wizard and the loneliest creature, eternal and unchanging unlike everyone else. Merlin looks down with a sad smile as Arthur grabs his hand and caresses the palm with his thumb. 

“I don’t remember,” he says. Merlin raises an eyebrow, his expression softer now that Arthur reached for him. “I don’t remember that night on the battlement. And I like being who I am. It’s not as if I never wished for normality and peace but...Merlin, you daft idiot, never away from you!”

Merlin smiles a genuine, youthful smile. “You haven’t called me that in ages.”

“Apparently it’s doing you a world of good, so I should say it more often. Idiot.” Arthur pulls and Merlin stumbles and falls against him. 

“I’ll have you know that I’m a feared and legendary warlock.” Merlin smiles into the crook of Arthur’s neck. 

“And I’m the once and future king, what’s your point?” Arthur quips and presses his lips against Merlin’s temple, breathing in his scent and feeling immediately better. His arms find their way around Merlin on their own accord. 

“I’ll tell you as soon as the blood circulation in my leg is back.” Merlin looks at him with a wry smile and shifts in a more comfortable position, elbowing Arthur’s side in the process. Somehow, Arthur finds himself on his back with Merlin straddling him.

“Your point?” Arthur asks, grimacing, and shudders as Merlin’s fingers worm their way under his shirt to cool the spot that connected with his bones. 

“My point being that you can’t talk to me like that.” Merlin keeps a straight face but Arthur knows that the bastard is grinning. And this, this is safe territory. Even after all this time, Arthur cannot fully understand Merlin but his body can. Sometimes he wonders why they don’t solve all of their problems with their clothes off. His skin doesn’t remember the feel of Merlin’s hand but the part of Arthur that has lived for over a thousand years does and he arches into the touch and the banter. 

“I can talk to you in any way I like,” Arthur drawls, working on Merlin’s fly. “And if you’re daft enough to think that you could just quit me like that, you’re very much an idiot.”

Merlin’s face lightens up with another heart-stopping smile. “But handsomely so.”

“I’ll give you that.” 

They stop when they hear laughter drifting up to them and Merlin casts a spell that shields them from view. His eyes turn gold for a split second and Arthur waits for it eagerly, his eyes firmly on Merlin’s face. When Merlin turns back to him, a shadow of his former sadness sharpens his features. Arthur pulls him down and presses their lips together, trying to kiss it away. 

“Merlin,” he whispers when they’re so close together that their breaths mingle. “I can’t ignore destiny and neither can you. Trust you to try though.” Merlin chokes back a laugh and Arthur brings their lips together once more, tasting home. “And we are going to fight as we’ve always done because this is why we’re here,” he whispers against the corner of his mouth and then he pulls back to find Merlin’s too blue eyes. “But I’ll try...I _promise_ I’ll try not to fall this time.” 

Merlin’s breath hitches and then he’s attacking Arthur with new vigour, all hands and eager lips and tongue. His kisses are messy as they have always been when he’s impatient. Arthur flips them around and holds Merlin’s face between his hands, hushing him. He kisses him slower and deeper, needing to crawl inside Merlin and reclaim what is rightfully his, because this, this is part of destiny, too.

“Missed you so much,” Merlin gasps when Arthur finally pulls away and turns his attention to the delicate skin on Merlin’s neck. Four months ago, his lips bruised the pale, smooth stripe of flesh and he’s eager to mark him again, now that he’s himself. He sucks and bites his way down to his collarbones and Merlin trembles beneath him, his hips moving against Arthur’s hipbone in a slow, sultry rhythm.

Arthur mumbles something but what he isn’t sure himself. And Merlin is so distracting with the small noises he makes and how he moves urgently against Arthur. Arthur takes his time though, and inhales the scent that is so uniquely Merlin’s. Roughly, he pushes the now mostly green-white T-shirt up and tastes the skin right above the hipbones. Merlin whimpers. Arthur finds the trail of hair beneath Merlin’s bellybutton and traces his tongue alongside it, sucking here and there until Merlin straightens with an impatient noise, hauls him up and gets about removing Arthur's T-shirt. 

“Eager for such an old man.” Arthur grins before Merlin lifts his arms and drags the T-shirt unceremoniously over his head. 

“I’ll show you old,” Merlin answers, pulling his own T-shirt off. He’s startlingly white against the sunlit meadow, not quite real and solid. Arthur pulls him against his chest to make sure he stays. Merlin’s right hand combs through the hair at the back of his head and then he pulls, exposing his neck. It doesn’t hurt but he isn’t gentle either. Neither are his searing kisses against Arthur’s throat. A groan is ripped from Arthur’s chest, as Merlin bites the juncture between shoulder and neck, holding him in place with strong, long-fingered hands. No one but Merlin has ever been so possessive of him and he couldn’t handle it from anyone else. His hands are unsteady when they worm their way in-between, fumbling for Merlin’s fly again. He palms the hardness through the cloth of his pants and Merlin makes a sound between a moan and a laugh and asks, “Who’s eager now?”

“Shut up,” growls Arthur and, _yes finally_ , wraps his hand around his cock. Merlin shuts up, an expression of utter bliss on his face. Arthur cannot help but kiss him then, his tongue moving to the slow, dirty rhythm of his hand. A few more strokes and Merlin is bucking, nearly throwing the two of them off-balance. He makes a frustrated noise and pushes Arthur to the side. Arthur’s hand is trapped and the angle strains his wrist and but he doesn’t find it in himself to care, not when Merlin is flustered and needy like that. 

His body pressing down and rolling on the grass, releases fragrances and pollen that make Arthur’s throat tighten. They may very well have done this on the exact same spot when Camelot was in all its glory. A feeling of homesickness makes him clutch Merlin even tighter. He knows that Merlin is using magic to free them of their remaining clothes, he’s too clumsy for it to go so smoothly. Arthur sighs with relief when the restraint is gone from his swollen cock and seeks more naked Merlin to curl into. Merlin’s skin is hot and his dampening hair is curling at the nape of his neck and behind his ears, when Arthur’s fingers thread through it and pull him close for an open-mouthed kiss. Merlin’s tongue is slick and hot and intent on sucking in Arthur’s very being. Under him, the grass is warm and soft and slightly sticky and Arthur’s legs fall open when Merlin begins to move against him. It feels too hot, too good, the way they push and rub against each other. One hand firmly on Merlin’s bony shoulder blade, Arthur’s other hand finds Merlin’s bum and presses him closer, yes, _there_ , just like that. The muscles straining and releasing under his callused hand feel glorious. He rolls his hips and Merlin lets out a shuddering breath, a tremor going through his lean body. Soon they thrust against each other too fast for kissing. Arthur finds that there is not enough air on the whole fucking hill and he’s not going to last, not with Merlin feeling so good and, fuck, it’s been too long. Merlin’s features are loosened in a look of wild abandonment and the burning knot in Arthur’s groin begins to spread and unfold. The feeling of foreskin on foreskin is fucking perfect, the drag part of an accelerating spiral of pleasure. He can’t remember being so hard, but it is difficult to think with Merlin’s slick cock rubbing against his again and again. He flicks his tongue over the soft skin just beneath Merlin’s ear and it earns him a deep moan and a jerk of his hips. 

“Arthur.” Merlin drags his name, makes it sound deliciously obscene, and Arthur feels a fierce stab of desire and thrusts up to get more of this glorious friction, more of Merlin, Merlin, Merlin, whose movements are getting frantic, lose their rhythm, as he’s driving himself and Arthur closer to the edge. Merlin tightens his grip on Arthur’s forearms, the muscles in his right arm trembling with the effort of keeping his balance. Arthur shifts a little and changes the angle of their sweat-slick thrusts and Merlin’s breath hitches and he’s coming, his cock jerking between them, creating a sticky mess on their bellies. Arthur stares up at him as continues to seek friction and, fuck, Merlin is still hard, still moaning and he’s almost there, almost, and then Merlin opens his eyes and looks at him _like that_ , like he’s his whole world, and Arthur’s balls tighten and his vision goes brilliantly, startlingly white, his entire body tenses and the dam finally breaks, and, yes, _that’s it_ , and it feels like he’s coming forever, shooting out spurt after spurt of his self, adding to the mess between them. 

When he can finally breathe again, Merlin has rolled aside, wiped the worst away with Arthur’s T-shirt, and looks at him with a smile that can only be described as soppy and sated and generally lovely. One white, sparely-haired leg propped up, Merlin lies on his arm and watches him through half-closed eyes and it’s such a non-sensually inviting and trustful posture that something in Arthur’s chest throbs with a completely different kind of pleasure. 

“You’re really too handsome for a king, d’you know that?” Merlin asks, voice scratchy. “It’s quite unfair.” His hand comes to rest on Arthur’s chest and he plays idly with the damp and curly hair. 

Arthur snorts. “You only say that because you don’t fit the general image of my lovely, docile queen.” 

“Gwen was never docile,” Merlin says, grinning.

“No, she wasn’t, was she?” Arthur smiles and looks up into the sky, trying to conjure up her face against the distant, cottony clouds. Guinevere had been beautiful and strong-willed in her own way until the day she died. Arthur thinks that he would have liked to grow old with his queen and his knights and his Merlin but his boat had set sail for Avalon long before their hair lost their colour. In his second life, Arthur was told by Merlin about Guinevere being married to Lancelot a year and a day later (like a fairy tale) and Arthur said that he was glad that she hadn’t been lonely for long. 

“Arthur,” Merlin says in a different voice. “You never said.” He doesn’t ask but Arthur knows that it’s a question anyway and keeps his eyes on the summer sky. His skin prickles where the refreshing breeze dries the sweat. 

“I thought that this was what you wanted me to do.” Arthur shrugs. “That you had done the same and found someone else to be with. Someone uninvolved.”

When he doesn’t get a reply he tears his gaze away from the comforting white and blue and turns to Merlin. He is startled by the look of shock on his face. 

Frowning, Merlin props himself on his elbow. “You really thought that?” he asks in a small voice. Arthur rolls on his side, moving closer, and shifts one leg between Merlin’s, the pose familiar and reassuring. 

“Merlin, I was dead to the world and you told me that you could never be sure that I would return. Why wouldn’t you?” 

“Could you do it? I mean, having your memories.” Merlin sounds all wrong and every fibre in Arthur’s body oscillates with the knowledge that no, he could not betray Merlin, no matter if he was alive or dead. Maybe things would be different if they had lived a mortal life, since the loss wouldn’t have been so immense then. But they are what they are, and when they’re together like this, all loosely entangled limbs, Arthur isn’t sure where he ends and Merlin begins. 

“We’re not talking about me, Merlin. Besides, Gwen remarried.”

“Yes, because she knew about us and we knew about her and Lancelot and if he hadn’t been so bloody virtuous and knightly, they would have been as adulterous as we were a lot sooner,” Merlin says in a voice that is still off. 

“I loved her,” Arthur snaps defensively.

“Yes, I know. And she loved you. But if you had been destined for each other, she would be here with you,” Merlin replies wearily. He must have thought about this more than once. What for? Arthur isn’t sure why but he knows that this is somehow significant, that this is the heart of the matter, and why does Merlin have to be so bloody _layered_ all the time? 

When it comes down to it, Arthur is a fundamentally honest and simple person. He’s lived long enough to know about black and white mingling into grey and he has told his share of half-truths and lies, but he’s no good at deceiving himself and, as King of Camelot, he left the court intrigues to Morgana and Merlin. He knows why he cannot let go of the ghosts of the past. Everyone close to Arthur has a certain, unassailable place, forever, which is why, in the case of Gwen’s early death, he would never have taken a second wife. It’s just how it is. He and Gwen had known each other well, had loved each other in their way, and neither had expected the other to be something he was not. So when Merlin told him a lifetime later, he said that he was glad, as he should be. It is absurd to feel differently and he would tell anyone else to get his twisted moral code straightened out, especially anyone whose wife wasn’t the love of his life. He knows all this. But why Merlin seems to be so deeply entangled in these old stories is a mystery. 

And then suddenly Arthur understands because it is so typically Merlin and it’s been there all the time.

“Merlin,” he says and brushes his thumb over Merlin’s jaw line. “I’ll have you know that I would choose you. Bugger destiny, I would still choose you.”

Merlin looks at him through his eyelashes and there is no trace of the all-knowing, immortal sorcerer. There is only Merlin looking a bit wretched and a bit hopeful. 

“How do you know?” he asks weakly. “Our whole bloody existence is in the hands of some abstract concept we cannot even grasp. The dragon and Morgana - hell, even I - we are only its agents and even after all this time I’m no closer to getting answers.”

“And consequently you tried to blackmail destiny by keeping me from doing what I was born to do?” Arthur raises an eyebrow and Merlin has the decency to look a bit contrite. “And you figured that I wouldn’t miss your bony arse since I’m only with you because no one else is still around and because destiny threw you at me? Sometimes I wonder why a fool like you was given so much power. There must have been someone clever available.”

“Arthur--”

“And I know, Mer _lin_ , because I’m your king and I’m very smart and handsome.”

Merlin rolls his eyes but a smile is tucking at the corners of his mouth. “You’re no better. Trying to be all noble and self-sacrificing when you should have just shouted at me as usual. Seriously, why would I want someone _uninvolved_? Took me ages to break you in and now that you finally learned to give good head--” 

This is when Arthur lunges at him and tickles the scrawny bastard until he begs for mercy. Nobody would ever believe him but the eternal Merlin does _squeal_. 

And then he shows him that he gives _excellent_ head. 

 

***

 

Sometimes Merlin doesn’t tell Arthur who he is. That is, he tells him his name, tells him about dragons, Camelot, Excalibur and destiny but not about how it doesn’t matter if he’s with Merlin or not, he is his reason to go on and not sink into stone and earth and breathe time instead of air. He doesn’t tell him how he can only be young with Arthur, how any world-weariness falls off him when Arthur smiles at him in recognition and pulls him in a bone-crushing hug as if he is a missing limb. He doesn’t tell him that staying away from him is a physical impossibility, even if that means closing Arthur’s eyes for another twelve times, and he doesn’t say that the years with Arthur are worth ten times the pain of losing him. Sometimes Merlin doesn’t tell Arthur who he is. Sometimes this is a good thing because he’s too full of himself already. 

 

_Fin_


End file.
